Southern Memoirs and Other Books Written in First-Person

I use the term "memoir" loosely here. All of the following are written in first person, and that's enough for me.

In the last post, I hinted that King would be among these. In the end, the Florence King book I was going to include didn't make the cut. It seemed a little "one of these things is not like the other." But maybe I will include it in the blog at a later date. If you want to check it out on your own, the book is Southern Ladies & Gentlemen, published in 1975 and very hard to find. (I scored a copy at a thrift store some five years ago.) Warning: King is bawdy, bawdy, bawdy. And laugh-out-loud funny. If you're looking for a genteel, mint julep, sweet tea Southern memoir, keep looking. This one ain't it.

So, let's share some memoirs, shall we?

Queen of the Turtle Derby (and Other Southern Phenomena) by Julia Reed, 2004; Random House

As Mardi Gras festivities come to a close next week, it seems only fitting that at least one Southern memoir makes mention of the celebration and the city that hosts some of the grandest parades and parties in the country.

Mississippi Delta native Julia Reed divides her time between New York and New Orleans. She says living in New Orleans is "not unlike living in the Old Testament," with flying Formosan termites, violence, sweltering heat and high humidity and mosquitoes so numerous that the city formed a 24-member Mosquito Control Board.

Like I can say anything about my family, but nobody else can, so Reed can write these things about New Orleans because it's her city. She is equally honest (not critical) about rural Mississippi and the country club class of Nashville.

She reveals the inner workings of a debutante ball and explores the "secretive, Byzantine, often fantastic culture of Mardi Gras." Debutantes and Carnival, she explains, are "inextricably intertwined."

Only in a memoir--a Southern memoir, actually--could anyone devote equal time to debutantes, tenderloins and George Jones.

Mama Makes Up Her Mind and Other Dangers of Southern Living by Bailey White, 1993; Addison-Wesley Publishing Company

Somebody broke into my house and stole my copy of Mama Makes Up Her Mind, and that's just wrong. I've looked high and low, and while I did not file a police report, know that I am ticked off. To be honest, the book wasn't mine to begin with. I just never returned it. But still.

So I checked out a copy from the library so that I could refresh my memory.

Bailey White is one of those quintessential modern-day Southern essayists whose work is solid and witty enough to be featured on All Things Considered. Born in Thomasville, Ga., White writes what she knows. But it's not that smarmy, screen-door, fried-chicken variety Southern memoir that urges you to read her essays again and again. She's above that.

The stand-alone chapters within Mama Makes Up Her Mind are, at once, laugh-out-loud funny and poetic, but you don't have to deal with the outlandish crap that makes some Southern memoirs seem unbelievable. White's tales are simply honest. And simply well-written.

My aunt Eleanor thinks I should marry her nephew Kevin. The fact that Kevin has to lie down with a cold rag on his head after an hour in my company, and the fact that I can't seem to breathe normally when I am in the same room with Kevin, and have to go out on the porch and gulp air every ten minutes, does not signify to Aunt Eleanor.

"But your families are so close," she pleads.

"Our families are the same, Aunt Eleanor," I point out.

"A little inbreeding in a strong family is not a bad thing," she pronounces with a smack. Just the thought of inbreeding with Kevin takes my breath away, and I have to put my head down between my knees.

This is just one girl's opinion--it being my blog, after all--but the key to a good Southern memoir is subtlety. Too much of a drawl, too many bug-catching, peanuts-and-Coke, rope-swinging tales, and you're at risk of crossing the line into cliché. White manages to steer clear of that line. She can let you know, for example, that her mother's favorite movie is Midnight Cowboy and that her Aunt Belle once tamed an alligator in the Georgia swamps, and you not only believe her, you want to hear more.

Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark, 2006; St. Martin's Press

Do I really need to say any more than what the title already says? Maybe a few lines, anyway.

Celia Rivenbark is a North Carolina humorist who either has or had a newspaper column. She writes primarily about life in the South, but she is particularly adept at pointing out things that tick her off. In the chapter of the same name, she bemoans her daughter's transition from the 4-6x department into the 7-16 area, where she determines, "My baby was growing up. And apparently into a prostitute." If you have daughters, you know how true this is.

Whither the adorable seersucker? The pastel floral short sets? The soft cotton dresses in little-girl colors like lavender, pale pink, periwinkle blue? This stuff practically screamed SYRINGE SOLD SEPARATELY.

She goes on:

Who decided that my six-year-old should dress like a Vegas showgirl? And one with an abundance of anger issues at that? ... I hope you won't take this the wrong way--you, the mom on the cellphone flipping your check card to your kid so she can buy the jeans that say SPANK ME on them.

There's much, much more where this came from, all wrapped up in a tidy pink package in hardback. I received this book for Christmas two years ago, and it resurfaces every couple of months so that I can reread favorite chapters. That's the beauty of a collection of essays: the level of commitment isn't so high. Read. Put it down. Pick it up a few weeks later.